


Copacetic

by pornographicrainbowlegs



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Punk, Band Fic, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 13:35:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1943082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pornographicrainbowlegs/pseuds/pornographicrainbowlegs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Battle of the Bands - Beacon Hills can only have one alpha.</p><p>A slice of life during the week leading up to the contest.</p><p>Original Prompt: Punks!AU Where Scott and Stiles work crappy jobs, live in a crappy apartment, and like to jam to post-punk at crappy bars. Living chaotically has never been more perfect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Copacetic

**Author's Note:**

> Copacetic  
> co·pa·cet·ic  
> adjective: copasetic  
> in excellent order.
> 
> Prompt 51
> 
> Some general housekeeping:
> 
> First, an amazing thank you out to my artist, [beardedwolfbabies](http://beardedwolfbabies.tumblr.com/) ([click here for her awesome art!](http://beardedwolfbabies.tumblr.com/post/91862379797/x-copacetic-x-by)). She was fantastic to work with and I couldn't be happier.
> 
> Second, I am in so much debt to my beta, the Earnest Hemingway of dick touching, [Cleveland](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cleveland). I owe him pie. Not just a slice, the entire fucking pie. Trust me.
> 
> Third, to the mods over at [scilesreversebang](http://scilesreversebang.tumblr.com/), THANK YOU! This was an awesome contest to be part of and I super appreciate all the hard work they did to put this together.

Stiles pulls into the parking lot and grabs the stack of flyers from the back seat. He clutches them to his chest as he climbs out of the Jeep and makes his way to the side door, the one that someone stuck a penny in so he doesn’t have to use his key. That someone may or may not have been Stiles himself. He’ll never tell. 

He takes the stairs two at a time and runs down the hall, practically bowling over Laura Hale as she’s walking to her apartment. “Sorry, Laura!” he calls over his shoulder, turning his head and wincing as she stumbles into the wall, which causes a misstep of his own and he falls into a grand somersault which miraculously doesn’t cause his flyers to scatter about the floor. He considers it a success. “You okay?” he asks as he rights himself. Still gripping onto the flyers, he uses his free hand to rub down his butt which took the brunt of his tumble.

“I’m fine, Stiles. What’s got you so excited?” she asks, brushing down her thighs with her hands.

“Big things, Laura, big things,” he smiles, gesturing with the flyers still clutched to his chest. “I’ll tell you about it later, I need to break it to Scott first.”

She smiles and waves him off before continuing on to her apartment. Stiles walks into his. “Scott?” he calls, letting the door shut softly behind him. There’s no answer, but a quick peek into their bedroom reveals why. Scott is sleeping soundly, partially under the covers, arm draped across his eyes.

Breaking the news when his partner in crime is sleeping is much harder, though not impossible. Stiles devises a plan. The perfect plan. The plan to end all plans. One plan to rule them all…

He locks the deadbolt and makes his way through the kitchen and into the living room. He deposits the flyers on the coffee table and seats himself on the couch. Pulling one of the flyers close, he begins to fold it. The folds are jagged and rough, and a sharp edge gives him a paper cut. Shoving the finger in his mouth, he inspects his work.

Not pretty, but it’ll fly.

Stiles places the paper airplane between his teeth and pulls his tongue back in an attempt to keep it from getting spit covered. He spins around and kneels on the couch. Using both hands, he shoves the window in the living room open. It scrapes against the frame loudly. He cringes and pauses, listening for Scott’s snores in the next room. Upon confirmation that his boyfriend is still sleeping soundly, he finishes opening the window and climbs onto the fire escape. He smiles, accidentally tonguing the paper in his mouth.

He makes his way to the last window before repeating the process – steadily lifting the window, much slower this time to prevent any squeaking. Once the window is appropriately open, Stiles pulls the paper airplane out of his mouth. He wipes the spit onto his pants and adjusts the wings before lobbing it at Scott’s general direction.

It misses, pathetically fluttering to the carpet several inches short of the bed while Scott sleeps on. “Fudge.” 

He taps his lips with his fingers in consideration. This leaves him with three options. Probably more than three if he felt creative, but lacking a TARDIS knocks several off the list.

Option 1 – Leave it alone. Scott will wake up eventually and probably step right on the airplane, and wonder “what is this?” and his curiosity will be fulfilled when he opens the airplane. But then Stiles doesn’t get to see Scott’s reaction and at that point why bother?

Option B – Get another flyer and try again. But that requires going all the way back to the living room, and ain’t nobody got time for that.

Option III – Operation Paper Liberation. Which is clearly in the lead, and Stiles demonstrates this by gripping onto the window sill and vaulting himself inside. He tries to avoid the bedside table, but things don’t go according to plan.

He crashes spectacularly on the floor, complete with the lamp falling on his chest after landing, at which Scott simultaneously bolts upright and grabs the bat hidden next to his bedside table. Scott screams and shakes the bat. Stiles screams and cowers, using the lamp as protection. After a few moments, the screams taper off from both parties and Scott asks the important question: “Stiles what the hell are you doing?” complete with exasperation and another wave of the bat.

“I had good news! Why do you have a bat?”

“I thought you were a predator!” Scott gestures with the bat in punctuation.

“Well I’m not!” Stiles uses the lamp to indicate his general body. There is mutual sighs – frustration (Scott) and relief (Stiles). “Can you put the bat down now?”

Scott looks momentarily confused before sheepishly smiling and returning the bat to its rightful location. “So,” he starts awkwardly, adjusting the blankets and his position to better look at Stiles as he sits on the floor. “What were you doing? And why didn’t you just come in the bedroom door? It’s open.”

Stiles spares a glare towards the bedroom door before turning back to Scott. “Don’t let the man tell you what is and isn’t a door.”

“Deep,” Scott nods along.

“Like the fucking ocean. But seriously, check this shit!” Stiles fumbles, setting the lamp down and grabbing the flyer from under his thigh before handing it over to Scott, who immediately pulls at the folds, tearing the paper a little.

“No fucking way,” he determines, eyes scanning the flyer. The main heading splays “Battle of the Bands” boldly with the tagline “Beacon Hills can have only one Alpha Band” underneath slightly smaller. A list of bands is even smaller underneath that, Scott and the McCall’s listed among them.

Their band is really just the two of them fucking around with their guitars. The name came from a running joke involving stage fright and a talent contest back in middle school. The details are lost to history. But it’s sort of a bait and switch but with good consequences because the name makes everyone damn Scott for vanity, but when they meet him, they find out just how humble he really is.

The flyer also lists all the prizes to the Alpha (first), Beta (second), and Omega (third) place bands with an additional section for themed drink specials for the event.

“I’ve got fifty more in the living room,” Stiles says, smiling at Scott’s awe.

Scott grins and looks up at Stiles, eyes catching the clock along the way. “Oh shit.” His face falls and he crawls off his bed and grabs pants he hopes are clean off the floor.

Confused, Stiles glances at the clock, too. “Shit dude, you’re late.”

“Very helpful,” Scott snips. Trying his hand at the whole putting pants on while walking thing, he hops his way towards the bathroom for a quick brush. “Can I borrow the Jeep?” he asks along the way.

“Of course.” Stiles gets up and follows him. “So I couldn’t help but notice,” he says while Scott puts toothpaste on his toothbrush and starts vigorously shoving it in his mouth. “Are you excited for Battle of the Bands or are you just happy to see me?”

Scott looks downward at his crotch, some toothpaste dripping on his shirt, cheeks turning beet red. He slams the bathroom door in Stiles’ cackling face. 

After Scott leaves, Stiles contemplates dinner. The kitchen is reminiscent of something out of a seventies magazine. It probably was state of the art then, but now it’s a little cramped and a lot dated. The refrigerator makes a disconcerting grumble whenever the compressor kicks on, but their food is always cold so it doesn’t fit on the list of things to complain about.

Stiles settles for a jam sandwich, not trusting their touchy fire detector not to have a shit fit if he were to make anything more complicated. That thing has never liked Stiles’ cooking, but Scott can usually pass muster. Usually Scott will make something Stiles can heat up later, but neither one has been able to make it to the market for groceries. As a result, the refrigerator is looking pretty bare. If it weren’t for the day old bread he’d swiped from Subway, he wouldn’t have had bread to spread his jam on.

He rummages for a moment in the junk drawer to find a roll of packing tape and slides it like a bracelet around his wrist. He shoves his sandwich in his mouth to hold before gathering up the flyers from the coffee table in the living room and heading out. He starts by posting one of the flyers in the lobby on the message board – alongside the request for “whoever has the universal remote please STOP changing my channels, it was funny the first time, now it’s just annoying. I just want to finish Lost in peace!” – signed 2B. Stiles sniggers thoughtfully and makes a Shakespeare joke as he chews another bit of his sandwich.

He moves on, going outside the complex and walking down the block. He stops every other street light and posts another sign. He stops at some businesses and asks if he can put his flyer up. He runs out of flyers just in time to reach Club Triskele.

Lydia is behind the bar, her butt leaning against it with her back to Stiles. She turns at the sound of the door closing. “No, get out,” are the first words spoken to him after walking in the front door, called from the other bartender, Derek.

“Aw come on, I just walked a mile and totally put up like fifty advertisements for your establishment along the way. I think that entitles me to a beer,” he reasons, disjointedly gesturing with his hands as he walks towards the counter.

Derek throws the towel he’d been using to dry glasses over his shoulder and crosses his arms over his substantially muscular chest. “You don’t drink beer,” Derek deadpans. With his whole body front facing Stiles, he can be quite intimidating. But Stiles knows Derek, has known him for years. Stiles knew Derek back in his Halestorm days, back when he and Kate Argent were a thing. Derek is far from intimidating. Or, well, he’s intimidating sure, but Stiles knows his buttons.

“Fine, a Malibu and pineapple, please,” Stiles requests, taking a seat on the black barstool. He takes a coaster from the stack and sets it in front of himself expectantly.

“The last time you got drunk on Malibu and pineapple, you went around the bar and hit on every guy here,” Lydia chimes in. She pushes herself off from the counter and comes to stand full facing Stiles. With the two of them staring him down, he almost gets the impression they don’t want him there.

“That’s because you accused me of not being gay,” Stiles reasons.

“Well, you’re not,” Lydia reminds him, taking the coaster off the bar and putting it back on the stack.

“I could be!” Stiles argues, grabbing the coaster off the stack and setting it in front of him once more.

“Granted, dear one, the only person who knows your sexuality inside and out is you,” Lydia says, immediately pulling the coaster from in front of Stiles, “I can infer from the cute crush you’ve had on me for years and the fact that you and Scott are a thing, you’re probably bi.” Stiles scoffs and takes another coaster off the stack. Derek continues to stare him down, but Lydia caves. “Ugh, fine. One, you get one Malibu and pineapple and then I’m cutting you off.”

Derek turns his glare to Lydia. “You’re such a pushover,” he says.

“Don’t make me regret this, Stiles,” Lydia warns.

“What could possibly go wrong?”

The next vaguely coherent thing Stiles remembers is Scott joining him at the bar. It’s like… one moment he wasn’t there and the next he was. Which is odd. When did it get so late? But more importantly, Scott is here. Does Scott know? Stiles should tell him.

“Scott!” Stiles slurs. “Scott, Scotty, … Scott-o,” he continues to mumble as though he’s not sure which is the most accurate name for his best friend.

“Yes, Stiles?” Scott smiles at his antics.

“They cut me off, Scotty,” he complains, lifting his glass. “This? This isn’t tequila. They told me it was, but it’s not. It’s water. I know what water tastes like and it doesn’t taste like tequila.”

“That true?” Scott asks Lydia.

“I cut him off when he started singing karaoke,” Lydia tells Scott.

“What’s wrong with karaoke?”

“It’s not karaoke night and he was singing into a full bottle of Jack Daniels, which he began spilling on himself when he tipped it up to reach a high note,” Derek informs him sourly.

“Mas tequila!” Stiles demands.

“You weren’t even drinking tequila!” Derek shouts.

“Don’t encourage him!” Lydia shouts back.

“Don’t listen to her, she’s just being a meanie head because I’ve got a big LESBIAN crush on her,” Stiles giggles. He goes in for a drink of his water, but a few things go awry. First, a bunch of it dribbles out the side of his mouth. Second, he realizes it isn’t alcohol again and lets the rest dribble down onto his shirt. “This isn’t tequila, Scott, do something!” 

“Come on, Stiles, let’s get you home and into bed,” Scott decides, looking at the state of his incredibly drunk boyfriend.

“Only if Beefy McBeeferson can come. I’d like to take a bite out of his butt,” Stiles giggles. It’s a common occurrence when there has been alcohol imbibed. And tonight? Definitely an extreme amount of alcohol imbibe-ment. It’s the giggles and an intense amount of flirtatiousness, as evidence by giving Derek a onceover ogle that would make a bro-dog teen-college drama movie proud. 

Scott sighs deeply and grips Stiles chin, forcing Stiles to look at him. “Stop being such a drunk slut,” Scott says, but he’s smiling because even if Stiles is a drunk slut, the water still dripping from his chin is probably the best protection he has against any waywardness.

“I wouldn’t have to be a drunk slut if _someone_ would just take me home already,” Stiles winks suggestively. Although, the suggestiveness is lacking per the drool.

Scott leans in to kiss Stiles mouth, then releases his chin, wiping the drool that transferred to his fingers on his jeans before grabbing at Stiles’ hand and tugging him towards the exit. It’s a stumbly and mostly pathetic walk to the Jeep, but Stiles makes it without any part of his body welcoming the concrete like an old friend. After getting Stiles buckled in, Scott makes the short drive to their apartment. Next to him, Stiles mumbles away about grilled cheese sandwiches.

The walk up the stairs is marginally worse than the walk to the car, but only because there are stairs involved. Stiles has the grace of a baby giraffe on a good day.

Scott deposits Stiles into his bed and goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He double checks the lock on the front door before climbing in next to his boyfriend.

“So, stud, you’ve got me in your bed. Now what?” Stiles slurs, which takes off a lot of the sexiness.

Scott giggles, scooting his body forward to become Stiles’ big spoon. “Sleepy time,” Scott replies, tucking the covers close.

“I could have gone home with anyone else, you know,” Stiles threatens, but again his drunkenness loses a lot of the menace. That and Scott is pretty secure in their relationship. 

“Shush, you’ll ruin the moment,” Scott says and wiggles a little closer.

“At least make out with me or something,” Stiles yawns.

Scott shrugs and fixes his mouth to Stiles’ throat, sucking a hickie into existence while Stiles moans next to him. “Happy?” he asks.

“So,” he says, the “s” sound elongated like a snake.

Scott throws an arm around Stiles’ middle before promptly passing out.

Morning comes very bright. Stiles grouses like an old man and pulls the blanket over his face. “Morning sunshine,” Scott observes.

“Notice the lack of ‘good’ in that sentence,” Stiles retorts, wincing at the faint headache forming behind his eyes.

“It would be better for you if you didn’t have that gnarly hangover.”

“Dude,” Stiles snaps and pulls the blanket down marginally to glare at Scott, “no one has used gnarly un-ironically since 1974.” He changes focus to the window which is letting in an ungodly amount of brightness onto the bed. “My mouth tastes like someone took a shit in it,” he complains and begins the process of extricating himself from the covers.

Scott fake gags. “Gross.”

“Want to make breakfast?” Stiles requests as he walks to the bathroom for a very necessary date with his toothbrush. But before he can even pick up his toothbrush, he notices the hickie on his neck. “Aw man,” he grumbles, rubbing at it.

“You asked for it,” Scott says, following him out of the room and takes a left to go to the kitchen. “All we have is muffin mix,” Scott calls, looking at the box mix instructions. Stiles glances over, still brushing away. Scott looks thoughtful and checks the fridge quickly before reporting back, “Scratch that, we don’t have eggs.”

Stiles pauses his brushing and pulls it out of his mouth for a moment to ask, “Do we have yogurt?”

Confused, Scott checks the fridge again. “Yeah, strawberry. Why?”

“Use that instead. Egg substitute,” and goes back to brushing his teeth.

“How do you even know that?”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles turns the water on and spits. “Guy in 2B loves the food network,” he says.

“No he doesn’t, he likes the history channel,” Scott objects, gathering a bowl out of the cupboard to begin mixing the batter.

“No,” Stiles smiles, “you like the history channel and he’s too freaked out when his TV changes to turn it back.” Stiles wanders out of the bathroom to lean against the wall to watch Scott make magic with muffin batter. “Anything I can do to help?” he offers.

“Don’t touch anything or the fire detector will go off and I haven’t even turned on the oven yet,” Scott warns.

Stiles holds his hands up in surrender. While Operation Muffin is a go, the two discuss the upcoming battle. They know some of the other bands on the list. The Jackson 5 is made up of Danny and Jackson. There used to be more members, but Jackson is a dick.

“I’m surprised Danny keeps him around,” Scott wonders mildly as he ladles the batter into the paper cups.

“You can keep a bad relationship together with good sex, but a good relationship will crumble if you fart under the covers,” Stiles muses sagely.

“Then how are we still together?” Scott winks.

Stiles pelts him with the oven mitt but laughs anyway.

“Yeah but without a drummer we might be in trouble,” Scott says, breaking Stiles out of his reverie. He puts the muffin tin in the oven and sets the timer before the two move the conversation to the living room.

“Why? It worked for The Jackoffs,” Stiles points out.

“The Jackoffs are fictional, and even they had a drum machine,” Scott retorts.

“Derek plays,” he says.

“He does?” Scott asks as though the mere thought is impossible.

“Yeah, I can’t believe you don’t remember. Used to be in Halestorm before –“

“Oh yeah!” Scott interrupts. “Creative differences,” he air quotes. “What a crock of shit.” He sombers up for a moment before continuing with, “I’m not sure if he’ll really join us though.”

“What? Why not?”

“Well, he kind of hates you,” Scott reasons and shrugs.

“He doesn’t hate me!” Stiles exclaims, but then stops and really thinks about it. “Okay, perhaps I’m not his favorite. But I don’t think he has a favorite so there’s that. But maybe I should apologize for the Jack I wasted all over his bar.”

“I think paying for the Jack you wasted all over his bar would go farther in making it better than just apologizing for it,” Scott says.

“Okay, game plan. I’ll buy a brand new bottle as a gift and work on my Academy Award winning apology speech and we’ll reconvene at the club tonight.”

The timer goes off announcing it’s muffin time.

After breakfast, Stiles and Scott get on their way to their respective places of employment. Scott works at the vets office two blocks away from the Subway where Stiles works on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. On Mondays and Wednesdays, he delivers drugs. Not illegal drugs. But the pharmacies across the county rely on his professionalism to responsibly transport drugs. Plus he has a vehicle, can pass a piss test, and doesn’t have a felony. Professionalism has a very loose definition for jobs with low standards.

Stiles doesn’t hate the sandwich business. And his work schedule and location make it very convenient that the two only have one vehicle. Whenever there is a mistake sandwich, he even gets free lunch. It’s just… the customers. Not all of them. Several are very intelligent beings who just want to eat fresh. But others will come in to the establishment not understanding that eight inch subs are a Quiznos thing, Italian bread **_is_** white bread, and if he ever hears another person scream five dollar footlong in his face, no jury will hold him accountable for his actions which he will not remember until he washes the blood off his hands.

He walks out of work smelling of fresh baked bread carrying a bag stuffed with a mistake sandwich he smuggled for Scott.

The bell on the door jingles as he walks into the vets office. Scott went to school for his generals to be a vet tech while working for Deaton. After his first grueling year at college, Deaton signed the papers for his office to be apprenticeship accredited. Basically offering Scott to work for just a little less money so Deaton can pay for his certification. After an astounding amount of hours and several state regulated exams, Scott will have his vet license. 

“I guess that answers what we’re doing about dinner,” Scott greets him as he walks to the counter, lifting it to allow Stiles entry to the back of the office. “Hang on, I’m almost done,” he says.

Stiles parks himself in front of a kennel with a tiny gray kitten with a cast on her leg. “Aw, cutie,” he announces, poking his finger between the bars.

“You can take her out, just be careful of her leg,” Scott says from the other side of the room clipboard in hand as he marks off inventory.

Stiles unlatches the kennel and waits for the kitten to approach him before picking her up. “Why don’t we have any cats? Aren’t vet techs afflicted by animal hoarding?”

“No pets at the apartment, you know that,” Scott says absently over his shoulder. “And that’s shelter workers who don’t want animals to be put down. Our animals are owned by someone,” he explains.

Stiles shrugs and uses his hoodie string to play with the kitten. She’s a very agile thing for having a broken leg, as proven by her squirming and clawing her way up Stiles’ shirt and resting herself on his shoulder, pawing at his hair. He tries to wrangle her back to a more manageable and safe position, but she sinks her claws into the hood of his sweatshirt and refuses to let go. “Ow!” Stiles hisses as her claws drag deeper into his skin. “A little help?”

Scott at least does the courtesy of looking at Stiles before passing judgment. “You’re getting bested by a kitten with a broken leg,” he announces before going back to his paperwork.

Stiles gives Scott a symbol that probably shouldn’t be repeated around school age children or near churches and then changes tactics from grabbing her around the middle to scruffing her behind the neck, which does the trick. “How do you like me now!” he says in triumph before settling the kitten on his lap and petting her back to calm.

“So did you give any thought to your apology speech?” Scott asks.

“Nope,” Stiles admits with a shrug. “Going to wing it, I’m good at that shit.”

Scott finishes up and Stiles replaces the kitten to her kennel before the two make their way outside to the Jeep. Stiles drives them to the bar with a minor pit stop at the liquor store. The alcoholism is not lost on him.

Finding time for band practice has been a challenge. City noise ordinance, and good neighborly practice, dictates not to be a shithead after 10 PM. Stiles will sometimes play out on the fire escape during the day, but Scott’s vet tech exams and emergency on call hours don’t usually make day time riffing an option. But as luck has it, Beacon Hills has many, many bars that offer open mic nights. One of them being Club T. Which is why, aside from the necessary apology speech that is about to be epically performed, Scott and Stiles are making their way there on this lovely Tuesday night.

They arrive at the club and park.

“Does the world just hate me or something?” Derek asks melodramatically as they walk in the door.

Stiles immediately waves the bottle of Jack like a white flag. “We come in peace,” he offers, setting the bottle on the bar. Derek eyes it like it’s going to bite or explode. “It’s not poison,” Stiles says. “It’s not even open, see,” he twists the cap gently to show the seal isn’t broken.

Derek puffs in a breath and holds it for a moment, a very fine line between furious and Zen-like tranquility crossing his features. “Apology accepted,” he spits between his teeth. It’s heartwarming.

“See,” Stiles beams at Scott, “I’m a pro.”

Scott rolls his eyes. Derek literally growls before taking the Jack off the counter and turning to help another customer.

“Come on,” Scott ushers Stiles over to the stage area. Anyone can sign up for open mic, but most weeks they have their pick of time slots. It also helps to be in with the bar owner. Only one other group signed up, but as they have not arrived, Stiles and Scott begin setting up.

Their “show” is mostly improved songs, some comedy, alcohol, and an impressive amount of punk covers. They’re a regular Punk Goes Various Other Genres. Bar time on weekdays is midnight, so as the tradition goes, Stiles and Scott jam out to a punkified version of Closing Time. The club only has a few stragglers left anyway.

“Don’t you have something else to ask Derek?” Scott asks pointedly as they gather their empties from the stage area.

“Why do I have to do it?” Stiles whines.

“It was your idea,” Scott bickers back.

“What was his idea?” Derek asks, popping out of the snow like a daisy. “Do I even want to know?” he adds, but that one sounds more rhetorical.

“Derek!” Stiles beams. “Just the man I wanted to see,” he recovers quickly from the fright of being snuck up on.

“Oh god, why do I let you guys keep coming?” Derek asks, pinching his nose.

“Because your yelp page mentions us by name,” Scott says.

“What the fuck is a yelp page?” Derek inquires, the pinchy look intensifying.

“Not important,” Stiles waves off. “You play drums, right?” he pauses long enough for Derek to nod. “Awesome! So how would _you_ feel about becoming an _honorary_ member of Scott and The McCall’s?” he pitches with his best salesmen voice.

“As much as under normal circumstances the answer would be an emphatic no, I can’t anyway. No one who works here can join the contest,” Derek explains.

“Bummer,” Scott sums up.

Crestfallen, Scott and Stiles finish cleaning up and leave to go home. The drive is quiet, somber even. “This is stupid,” Scott determines. “We’ve never had a drummer before, it’s always been just you and me, why does it matter now?”

“Because that prize money would be really awesome so we’re not stuck eating mistake Subway every night,” Stiles points out.

“Oh yeah.”

Stiles parks the Jeep and the two grab their guitars from the back seat and make their way to the side door with the penny. “I don’t know about you, but I’m a hot, sweaty mess,” Stiles announces when they get inside the apartment. He promptly leans his case against the wall before stripping down and helping himself to the shower.

The bathroom is tiny and old and the water pressure leaves something to be desired, but it gets hot water in the winter and the tub is nice enough that on a rare occasion, they can have baths together. With bubbles, of course.

Stiles relaxes under the shower stream, deep in thought. They’ve played plenty of open mic nights at the club. They are even marginally famous, if that yelp ad is anything to go by. Obviously some people don’t care if they don’t have a drummer. The only reason this drumming thing is important at all is because of the prize money. Stiles rinses the suds out of his hair, running his fingers through it to shape it like a Mohawk.

“Stiles?” Scott asks, voice directly on the other side of the curtain.

Stiles opens his eyes, mildly surprised Scott barged into the bathroom. “Yo, man, privacy,” he says.

“You’re literally my boyfriend, I’ve seen your junk before,” Scott points out.

“I’m still allowed to choose when you see my junk,” Stiles asserts. “FYI, now is totally okay.”

Scott pulls back the curtains, already naked, and steps into the tub with his boyfriend. “Look, I like Subway,” Scott starts off, reaching out to grab Stiles wrist.

Stiles chuckles briefly. “Easy for you to like Subway, you’re not stuck smelling it all day,” he prods gently, but still taking to heart the intent behind Scott’s mini speech.

“Ugh, you know what I mean,” Scott groans. “It’s just, I feel like I bummed you out implying we might not win because we don’t have a drummer. We’re amazing, we have a yelp ad that mentions us by name. It totally worked for The Jackoffs, we’ll kick this things ass.”

Stiles appreciates the change of attitude, but being naked in a confined area with his boyfriend makes his mind go different places quicker than usual. “Yeah, speaking of jack offs,” Stiles smirks and winks.

“That is the worst way anyone has ever asked me to touch their dick, you nerd,” Scott laughs and reaches out to muss Stiles' shower Mohawk, who squeaks in mild offense.

Stiles pulls him under the spray of the shower for a kiss. “Come here.” With a little squirming, and one near slide into the curtain, Stiles positions Scott to face away from him so he can wash his back and shaggy hair.

He grabs their shared bottle of Old Spice Wolfthorn body wash. They had gotten it because it was on sale, but he secretly thinks it makes Scott smell really good even though the gel itself smells like pixie sticks and Shocktarts. He squirts some of it on that absurd body detailer that came with the body wash and starts scrubbing Scott's shoulders.

Scott makes little happy half moans as Stiles works the suds over his shoulders and lower back. He works lower and lower until he is absent mindedly soaping up Scott's ass. Then he gives it a playful squeeze.

“Stiles...”

“Don’t Stiles me, have you seen your ass? It’s magnificent, fucking artwork I tell you. I would bounce quarters off of it if I ever had any.” Stiles gives the butt in question another squeeze before leaning in to kiss Scott's neck. “I should make us match.”

Scott swats him away. “I am a professional,” he teases.

“Yeah, a professional dickhead. You gave me a hickie the size of my fist!” Stiles sticks out his tongue just as Scott turns around laughing.

Scott gives him a kiss on the cheek. Then, for good measure, he places more on his other cheek, forehead, his hair, and finally on his lips. Stiles eagerly deepens the kiss and brings his body closer to his boyfriend under the miraculously still warm water.

Scott’s mouth tastes like toothpaste. He must have brushed his teeth before hopping in the shower. Scott is such a thoughtful boyfriend and Stiles is so happy they’re dating. And best friends. Best friends that are dating and have really awesome sex sometimes. He opens his mouth to tell him so but realizes they are in fact still kissing.

Stiles waits until Scott ends the kiss. His pupils are huge and so is his hair since Stiles has been running his fingers through it.

“Dude,” Stiles starts to say, brushing hair out of Scott's eyes.

“Eloquent,” Scott snarks, cutting his boyfriend short.

“Your mom’s eloquent, McCall,” Stiles throws back. “I was going to say something nice about how good you look like this but now I won't.”

He looks at Scott, who is looking back at him, with his dopey grin playing across his slightly asymmetrical face, and his floppy hair already sliding back most of the way over his eyes again. He wonders how anyone couldn’t be in love with Scott McCall.

While Stiles muses about how awesome his boyfriend is, Scott is backing him up to the wall of the shower and grabbing something off the shower rack behind him.

“We need to clean this thing, it’s getting grody.”

“Seriously Scott. Update your vocabulary. It’s 2014,” Stiles begins to protest before realizing exactly what Scott had plucked from the clutter of mostly empty shampoo bottles and hardened nubs of soap.

Scott flicks open the lid of the container with his thumb.

“I see you’re finally recognizing the genius of keeping water proof lube in the shower.”

“It does have practical applications,” Scott concedes, squirting a quarter sized portion into his hand before applying said lube to Stiles’ dick.

Scott’s hand is warm, and the shower is warm, and everything is slippery in a really, _really_ good way. It’s only a hand job but Stiles’ knees wobble a little bit and he sends out a silent thanks to whoever put the ugly, fading, lime green nonslip flowers on the bottom of this tub because they have saved him so many times.

His ear is being nibbled in a way he really likes and Scott is doing something that makes it feel like his cock is in a never ending tunnel. He definitely didn't learn that one from Cosmo. Stiles braces his feet against the tub and pumps his hips in time with Scott's movements.

Leaning in, Scott gently kisses and licks Stiles’ neck. The giant hickie only looks worse from up close so he steers clear of that side. Scott almost feels bad about that. Almost.

Stiles huffs and groans, closing his eyes so only the whites are peeking out from under his lids. He has one hand tangled in Scott’s hair and the other wrapped around his bicep. He squeezes Scott’s arm and gives a final groan before letting his head rest on Scott's shoulder. 

Stiles has about fifteen seconds of bliss before they hear a clang and frigid water starts pouring over them. The sight of Scott's boner bobbing as he runs into the bedroom to get a towel will stay with him forever.

Stiles meets Scott back in their bedroom a few moments later, long enough to shut off the now glacial water. Scott is getting a towel from the laundry they have yet to properly put away. He tosses a second one to Stiles. “You look like a drowned rat,” Stiles comments, still amused from the image of Scott’s butt running from the bathroom.

“You’re a drowned rat,” Scott says, lamely.

Stiles snorts and wraps the towel around his waist. He takes Scott’s towel from him and begins drying his boyfriend off. He rubs the towel down Scott’s cheek to get the water dripping from his hair, using the motion to pull Scott forward into a kiss, then dragging the towel a little lower to wipe his shoulders.

He follows the towel down as he progresses lower to dry Scott’s body, kissing along his neck, shoulders, ribs, all the way down until he’s on his knees in front of Scott’s cock. He glances up at Scott’s face for reassurance. Scott’s eyes are practically twinkling. The towel is looped just above Scott’s ass. Stiles uses it to pull Scott forward, mouth open and waiting to lick at Scott’s dick.

It’s still damp, the little droplets of water taste clean against his tongue as he laves over the sensitive skin. Scott’s breathing trembles, leaving Stiles to smile around the dick in his mouth. He bobs his head forward, keeping his mouth wet with spit, swirling his tongue on the underside. He lets his right hand drop the towel, instead holding the portion of Scott’s cock that isn’t in his mouth.

Scott is trembling more, his breathing comes stuttered as he shudders, mumbling Stiles’ name over and over again. His hand comes to rest in Stiles hair, guiding Stiles in and out, setting the pace but not forcefully. Stiles quickens his bobbing, Scott tightens his grip in Stiles’ hair, pulling gently as he moans out beautifully. “Gonna come,” he warns, eyes closed and body tightening for the coming orgasm.

The fist in Stiles’ hair tightens, stilling him as Scott shoots in the back of his throat. He swallows out of reflex before pulling off. Scott is breathing heavy, body still shaking slightly. “Thanks,” Scott breathes.

“Welcome,” Stiles says, pushing himself up to stand before kissing Scott full on the mouth.

The next morning, Scott’s alarm blares loudly, bright and early. They each grab a muffin before heading to work. Stiles drops Scott off at the vets with a, “Have a great day at school, honey! Make good choices!” before speeding off to the pharmacy for his drugs.

Stiles loves working at the pharmacy. He gets to listen to his favorite music all day and drive his baby. They pay for his gas and the hourly isn’t anything to snort at either. The only bummer is that his AC has been on the fritz since he bought her, but that just means he gets to rock the windblown look. Most of his route is near the coast anyway, so any heat is usually pretty mild.

The only downside is that he only works when there are routes for him to take. Some days there’s fifteen drop-offs, some days there are only two.

Today happens to be a really, really long day. It’s even so late that Stiles has to send an apology “Sorry bud, you’re walking home” text to Scott. It’s very late, and Stiles is very hungry by the time he makes it back to their apartment, which is rather unfortunate considering the last of the muffins, which were the last of their groceries, were eaten for breakfast.

“Hey, Laura,” Stiles greets, seeing Laura exiting her apartment.

She turns her head and smiles, “Hey, Stiles.” She locks the door and faces him. “So what was all the excitement about?” 

“Oh!” he squeaks, momentarily forgetting his hunger induced misery. “Scott and The McCall’s are in Club T’s Battle of the Bands!”

“Way to go!” she congratulates.

“Yeah, we play this Saturday, you should come watch,” he offers. “Definitely vote for us, we could use the prize money.”

“It’s just supposed to be for fun, isn’t it?” Laura asks, cocking her head to the side.

“Well, yeah, but if you could win that money and go out to somewhere nice like Olive Garden, wouldn’t you?”

“Olive Garden?” she giggles. “Setting the bar awfully high.”

Stiles chuckles with her. “Eh, go big or go home.” 

“Well, good luck, maybe I will come see,” she offers with a smile. “But I have to go now, I’m late for girl’s night.”

Stiles waves her off and continues on to his apartment. A very enticing, yet unexpected smell reaches his nose. “Scott?” he calls, tossing his keys on the counter. A large pot is sitting on the stove emitting the scent of what can only be Scott’s famous chili.

“In here,” Scott calls from the living room.

Stiles rounds the corner to see Scott kneeling in front of the TV, queuing up what appears to be the opening credits for Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope. He pauses just as the introduction begins at the bottom edge of the screen.

“What’s all this?” Stiles asks.

“Payday!” Scott announces. “I did some grocery shopping. We have more than stale Subway bread in the fridge now.”

“I knew there was a reason I keep you around,” Stiles jokes. The two grab bowls of chili and seat themselves on the couch before pressing play to this evening’s marathon.

Stiles originally bought the VHS tapes when Blockbuster switched to the re-released versions on DVD several years back. He had to beg his dad for an advance on his allowance, but it was totally worth it. Even though several “digitally re-mastered” versions have hit the shelves on DVD and Blu-ray with additional features and hours of director commentary, he refuses to upgrade. There’s something off about the cleaned up Special Editions. It’s like listening to The Beatles; something just sounds cleaner when it’s listened to off vinyl versus the reformatted MP3 off iTunes. 

Both of them can do a passable Yoda, but only Scott can do a decent Chewbacca. He even went as Chewbacca for Halloween when they were kids, with Stiles as Han. They only stopped the tradition because Scott had to go and hit puberty and the costume didn’t fit anymore.

The occasion calls for cuddling under their commemorative Star Wars themed blanket. (It’s really Scott’s, but Stiles has claimed it. It’s the warmest blanket in the house when he’s sick.)

They both know all the words, and often will break out their invisible light sabers during the fighting scenes. They used to have real light sabers, but they broke three years ago along with a very nice lamp that used to belong to Scott’s mom. She put the fear of god into them so bad that even as full blooded, bill paying adults they are still afraid to get new ones because some how _she’ll know_.

With a break for popcorn between IV and V and a break for ice cream between V and VI, their marathon is complete nearly seven hours later. They both head to bed like old people shortly after. Scott has a day of studying tomorrow, but Stiles is working the breakfast shift. Scott is lightly snoring before too long, a little drool leaking out onto Stiles’ shirt.

Scott’s phone alarm is going off far too soon to wake them. Scott slides it off, but the damage is already done. They are conscious, but not up just yet. “Hmm, morning,” Scott mumbles, waking up slowly.

“Ya’ever consider spiking your hair?” Stiles wonders, still mostly asleep. “Bet it’d look badass.”

“Too much work,” Scott announces.

“Nah, I’ll do it for you,” Stiles explains. He rolls a little bit so he can use his hands to card through Scott’s hair. He pulls the hair up and out to mock liberty spikes, but without any spray, the hair just falls back softly to the way it was before. “For Saturday, what do you think?”

“I think you’re going to be late,” Scott says, but makes no move to pull away from the scalp massage Stiles’ fingers started up.

Even with the threat of tardiness, the two still take a leisurely time getting ready for the day. Scott will be in for a morning of studying, while Stiles is off for a day of bread making – literally and figuratively.

When he returns home late in the afternoon, Scott is passed out on the couch. His flashcards have fallen to the floor, like they might have been in his hands before he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. The evening is a mixture of flashcards and guitar practice. Although Stiles will never be a vet, he could probably not totally fail one of Scott’s exams if he were forced to take one against his will. Though keeping Scott focused this late in the day has become a challenge.

“AQ?” Stiles reads off, showing the front of the card to Scott.

“Aqua, water,” Scott drones, eyes slipping closed, chin resting on his hand.

“PR?”

“It’s a butt thing,” Scott supplies.

“I’m pretty sure on a test that would be marked wrong,” Stiles says. “But ‘butt’ and ‘rectum’ are close enough in my book. CC?”

“Carbon copy?” Scott guesses lamely.

“You’re not even trying,” Stiles complains, dropping the cards on the coffee table.

“I am! I am, I swear I am,” Scott says. “Cubic centimeter, you’re taking all the fun out of it,” he complains.

Stiles frowns, “I wasn’t aware there was any fun to suck from.” 

“Maybe if there were bets on the table,” Scott shrugs.

Stiles sits on the floor and thinks a minute. “Hey, Scott, do you wanna play a game?” he asks in his best impression of Jigsaw, which is fucking horrible.

Scott chuckles. “What kind of game do you suggest?”

Stiles is all serious business and says, “Strip Quiz. If you get the answer right, I’ll take off an item of clothing. If you get it wrong, you take one off.”

Scott scratches his chin, contemplating the offer on the table. “Deal,” he finally agrees. “But socks count as one item of clothing, no cheating.”

“Deal,” Stiles nods, extending his hand to shake. He gathers the flashcards up from the table and reshuffles, placing his hand behind the stack so Scott can’t cheat. Not that he would. “Okay, here we go. Name for me three layers of inte…integuh… Scott, the fuck is this word?”

“Oh, integument? It’s like the layers of skin and stuff. There’s the epidermis, dermis, and hypodermis,” Scott says proudly, counting them off on his fingers.

Stiles begrudgingly takes off his socks.

Several cards later, Stiles is sitting in nothing more than his birthday suit with a handful of flashcards covering his junk and Scott is sitting pretty, having only lost his t-shirt. He has given definitions for sweat, muscle contusion, and the function of fur.

“This is bullshit, McCall. I don’t want to play anymore,” Stile announces, dropping the cards on the coffee table so he can cross his arms over his chest.

“Aw, come on Stiles, this is really helping,” Scott sidles closer to his boyfriend and kisses him on the cheek.

“You just want to check out my sweet butt,” Stiles accuses, sticking his tongue out for good measure.

“You’re sitting down, dude, I can’t even see your butt,” Scott laughs. Stiles gives him a goofy look, like he’s trying not to laugh. “What?”

“Remember that song like, oh what was it? Like, what what in the butt?” he jogs Scott’s memory before lowering his register to ask sexily, “Scott, do you wanna do it in my butt, in my butt?” before breaking down laughing.

He starts singing some lines from the song as Scott bends down and scoops him up, tossing him over his shoulder like a particularly musical sack of potatoes. “You do have a pretty sweet butt,” Scott admits with a nod and a smack to said butt.

“Hey!” Stiles protests, cutting off the next verse.

“The lady doth protest too much, me thinks,” Scott grunts, hefting Stiles so the boy will sit nicer on his shoulder for the short trip to the bedroom.

“I’ll show you who’s a lady,” Stiles threatens, reaching down to smack Scott’s ass in retaliation.

“I think the whole point of this is that neither of us are ladies,” Scott laughs, hitching his step a little as Stiles continues to swat at his butt while he walks. They reach the bed, where Scott unceremoniously drops Stiles. He bounces, using the momentum to land on his hands and knees. He’s grinning and giddy when he looks up at Scott looking down at him with a wicked smile.

Scott slides a knee up on the bed, closing the distance between himself and Stiles, letting their mouths connect. The motion naturally changes Stiles’ position to just balancing on his knees as Scott brings his other leg up, using his arms to steady Stiles’ shoulders, guiding him to fall back on his back. Scott positions his knees between Stiles’ legs, never once breaking the kiss which has gained more and more passion since the start.

Scott breaks away from Stiles’ mouth, instead kissing along his jaw while using his hands to explore his shoulders, his clavicle, his ribs, before resting just over his nipples. Stiles begins to breathe heavily and lightly moan as Scott kisses over the hickie that’s healing quite nicely. “Don’t you dare,” Stiles warns, but it comes out wanton and needy. He can feel Scott’s lips curl, and his teeth sink just a bit too hard, eliciting a moan from Stiles’ lips, before moving further down to his clavicle.

Stiles hands wander along Scott’s bare shoulders, feeling up the hard muscles beneath his fingers, using his nails to lightly dig into the skin. He eases up the pressure a bit, tracing Scott’s armband tattoo with his index finger. “Any thought what you want to get next?” he asks.

Scott pauses his kissing. “Your name on my ass,” he says before immediately returning his lips to his boyfriend’s nipple, licking and suckling it to pertness. Stiles squirms beneath him. “Should get these pierced next,” Scott says, using his right thumb and index to continue to pinch and prod at them. His other hand roams, brushing softly down Stiles’ sternum, and coming to a rest just before his now hard cock. Stiles bucks under him, wriggling his hips to get some action where he wants it, but Scott is firmly and infuriatingly not touching there.

“Oh, come on,” Stiles begs, opening his thighs up and lifting his ankles behind Scott’s ass and pulling Scott down on him. Scott loses his balance, having to catch himself with his hands on the bed so as not to put his full weight on his boyfriend. Their crotches meet, Stiles naked, Scott still behind pants.

“Needy,” Scott accuses, but takes the hint. After regaining his balance, he unbuttons his jeans and pushes them down. Stiles helps.

Stiles keeps his ankles crossed and heels pressed against Scott’s ass so their crotches continue to rub together as he wiggles and makes aborted thrusts upwards.

Scott tries to let go but Stiles refuses to let him, just holding on tighter. After a few failed attempts at escape, “Babe, lube,” he reminds, to which Stiles amicably relents his grip.

He stretches to retrieve the lube and condom from the drawer in the bedside table. He sets the condom on the bed, but immediately squirts a dollop of lube onto his fingers. He sits back on his heels to get a better angle lowering his fingers to Stiles’ butt. After a bit of shifting, and Stiles lifting his legs to his chest, Scott has a fantastic view of the festivities as he begins to play with his boyfriend’s ass.

Scott can’t decide what he wants to watch: the way his finger slips into Stiles’ hole or the beautiful faces Stiles makes while he does it. He lowers his mouth to lick at Stiles’ cock, looking up at his boyfriend throwing his head back in pleasure. Stiles hands come down to play in Scott’s hair, pulling gently. One finger turns to two, causing Stiles to pull harder on Scott’s hair as he bobs down on his cock.

Once satisfied with the preparation, Scott removes his fingers and sits up a bit to grab at the condom. He tests the package and tears the wrapper, sliding it on his dick and applying a little more lube. He glances at Stiles, reading his features to make sure he’s comfortable before lining his dick up with Stiles’ ass. He braces his free hand against the bed. Stiles’ hands curl around Scott’s ribs, helping to ease the pace as he thrusts forward, sinking balls deep into his boyfriend.

Stiles closes his eyes, trying to adjust to the cock in his ass. Not painful, just something that still takes some getting used to. Scott leans down to kiss his forehead, making Stiles smile and open his eyes again to see Scott grinning down at him. “You groovy?” Scott asks, but even he can’t keep a straight face at his old fashioned word choice.

“Yeah, man, you gonna boogie this thing or what?” Stiles mocks, but thrusts his hips as best he can from the terrible angle he’s got.

Scott snorts, but starts up thrusting into Stiles, slow at first but quickly gaining speed. Before too long, both were moaning each others’ name. Knowing his orgasm is coming close, Scott reaches between their bodies to help speed Stiles’ up. It doesn’t take much before Stiles’ broken half-thrusts become even more erratic and come streaks coat their bellies. Scott thrusts faster, seeking his own, knowing from experience how not fun it is to keep having sex when his partner isn’t done but he is.

The coil in his belly unleashes shortly after, causing him to collapse on top of Stiles. He pulls out and rolls off a few moments later, long enough for the pure bliss to pass.

“We should play that game again sometime,” he offers lamely, smiling at Stiles.

“Or you could just ask me ‘oh Stiles, please let me fuck you’ like a normal boyfriend,” Stiles says, grinning back.

Eventually Stiles gets up to grab washrags for the two of them to clean up, followed by naked cuddling, and eventually sleep.

It’s always nerve racking before actually getting on stage. Most of the time, Stiles and Scott are just putting on an open mic show or once for a birthday party. They’ve played the open mic scene so often that it’s old hat. It’s nerve racking in the sense that they are in public, but the nerves about something going wrong have long passed because experience has taught them how to handle most things that could possibly go wrong and the showmanship to distract from the things they can’t fix.

But this show has got Stiles amped and sweaty and it’s only Friday morning. Scott is still sleeping soundly while Stiles is up and double checking their supplies. He dusts, polishes, and does a general maintenance onceover for both his and Scott’s guitar. He’s just about finished when he hears Scott’s alarm go off. He places both guitars back in their cases by the front door. “Good morning,” he says to Scott as his boyfriend stumbles sleepily out into the hallway heading towards the bathroom.

Scott mumbles a response before the door shuts behind him.

His entire shift at Subway is spent waiting for the day to just _get done_. With this much restlessness, he considers trying to leave early, but it wouldn’t make any difference as the show isn’t until tomorrow anyway. Quitting time does eventually roll around.

He meets Scott at home and they have leftover chili for dinner before talking about their set list for the show.

When their usual bedtime rolls around, it’s fucking impossible to actually fall asleep. “We could put in the prequels, that would put you right out,” Scott comments, looking up at the ceiling.

“As if I would even own that filth,” Stiles retorts, glaring at Scott before turning on his side and snuggling closer.

Sleep eventually does come, but so does an early morning. “Oh, come on,” Stiles complains as he checks his phone upon waking up. The sun has barely risen, but there’s no point in trying to go back to sleep with how hard it was the first time.

“What time is it?” Scott mumbles.

“Fucking early,” Stiles says, getting up. “Want some eggs?” he offers.

“Yes, but if you make them, you’ll wake the whole complex,” Scott chuckles. They both make a slow migration towards the kitchen where Scott starts getting all the ingredients for omelets out of the fridge and pantry.

“Breakfast of champions,” Stiles says, taking a seat on the countertop to watch Scott’s magic.

“That’s Wheaties.”

“You’re Wheaties.”

“That joke is so 2010, and I swear to god if you say ‘ _you’re_ so 2010’, I will absolutely leave an eggshell in your omelet.”

Stiles at least has the decency not to say it out loud, just in his head. After breakfast comes quick showers and getting dressed.

Stiles tries again to insist on giving Scott some spikes, but the unevenness of his jaw makes the practice spike look heavy handed, which is probably just as well as Stiles has never been a stylist – nor has he played one on TV. Instead, Scott slicks his hair back and trims the sides with his razor. It looks much cleaner than anything Stiles could have pulled off.

Stiles tosses a shirt at Scott when he returns to the bedroom. “Good choice,” Scott compliments the shirt as he pulls it over his head. The shirt displays a wolf’s face expertly dyed into the fabric, perfectly themed for the night’s events.

They double check the instruments and equipment before packing the car. Without much left to do, they make their way over to Club T.

“Oh good, you two,” Derek grunts when they walk through the door. The Club isn’t officially open yet, far too early in the day for that. But Derek has a habit of leaving the back door unlocked when he arrives in the morning to do the accounting and inventory.

“S’up?” Stiles asks, leaning on the office door. Scott, only a step behind him, bends a little to rest his chin on Stiles’ shoulder.

“Is it your life mission to torment me? I have shit to do.” Derek pushes back from the desk on his wheelie chair, twists to face them, and crosses his arms.

“We’re bored,” Scott says.

“Look, I don’t care what you do, just do it somewhere that isn’t my office.” With that, Derek uncrosses his arms to push the door of the office closed in Stiles and Scott’s faces.

They wind up playing darts for a while to waste time. Neither have quarters to make the machine keep score, so it loses its entertainment value very quickly. Playing tic-tac-toe on the chalkboard lasts for a while before Stiles starts drawing dicks instead of X’s.

Eventually a rudimentary game of bowling is set up on the stage area with plastic cups from behind the bar as pins and toilet paper rolls as balls. It doesn’t stay a game of bowling for long after a dispute about the score comes up a little later.

Derek comes out of his office and very obviously pauses as if he were counting to ten. Stiles stops pelting toilet paper rolls at Scott and Scott stops assaulting Stiles with the plastic cups. “Why?” he asks, but it sounds rhetorical so neither of them attempt to answer.

The contestants start showing up variously after that. It’s a veritable cluster fuck until Derek takes charge.

The whole shebang kicks off just as the sun starts to set. Each band is given a half hour to rile the crowd and play their set. Votes will be counted and the winner announced at midnight, followed by an encore for the Alpha band.

When Scott and The McCall’s take the stage, the whole club seems to react positively. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe stage blindness, but the show seems to go unbelievably well. The two are sweaty and exhausted when they leave the stage.

For job interviews, and probably contests, it’s best to go first or last to either make the initial impression or the last impression. Unfortunately, they did not have such a choice. Although glad to not be first, for the incredibly long wait to midnight, going somewhere in the middle doesn’t leave it any easier to wait for the results.

As they leave the stage, Danny from Jackson 5 catches his eye. “You guys did awesome!” he gushes.

“Thanks,” Stiles says genuinely. “And good luck to you,” he smiles.

The amount of good performances is awesome. Stiles would never want to win something because everyone else is bad. But it also makes the anticipation that much harder.

Stiles and Scott retreat to the bar to watch the rest of the bands, partaking in some of the themed drink specials like Primal Shooter (Kahlua and rum) and Transformation (Jager and pineapple juice).

After the last band leaves the stage and the MC makes the final call for votes, the real wait begins. Derek, usually bartending, locks himself in his office as he counts all the votes. It is nail-bitingly suspenseful as jukebox music fills the air that had moments before been a live performance. It is fairly inadequate considering the mood of the crowd.

It’s the longest fifteen minutes ever waiting for Derek to reappear with a yellow legal notepad under his arm. It even still has the tally marks nicked off next to the band names. Stiles wishes he had better eyesight to read the names from across the bar. He hands the pad off to the MC as the jukebox is turned off and the crowd applauds. “Glad this shindig was up to audience vote,” he riles the crowd, “I would never be equipped to judge such talent that was seen tonight!”

Stiles nudges Scott’s arm. “He has the same outdated vocabulary as you do,” he jeers, mildly slurred. One too many Hair Raisers (Kahlua, chocolate syrup, and Bailey’s). Scott rolls his eyes and fake punches Stiles’ arm in retaliation.

Stiles wants so badly to win this thing, but he also doesn’t want to get his hopes up. Like Laura said, it’s just for fun after all.

“That said, this contest needs a winner!” The crowd cheers accordingly. “Third place,” he pauses dramatically, “winner of the title Omega is… The Jackson 5!” Danny and Jackson take the stage and take their bows to the cheering crowd. Someone even tosses a bra on stage at Jackson, who looks marginally less sour after he catches it.

Scott rubs Stiles’ arm impatiently, the excitement trilling through the bar is infectious as they wait for the second place band to be announced.

After Jackson 5 leave the stage, the MC continues. “Second place!” he declares, still dramatic, “Or Beta, if you will, goes to… Silver Arrow!” Allison, Erica, Malia, and Kira all take the stage. Stiles briefly wonders what the Silver Arrow MTV Presents Behind the Music would reveal.

Stiles feels like he’s held his breath for years. It’s almost too much to hope for. It just can’t be. He doesn’t know if he can stand being let down. It’s just for fun, he tries to remind himself, but it fails to calm his expectations.

“Now, first place, and Beacon Hills one and only Alpha Band goes to…” His most dramatic pause yet, “Scott and the McCall’s!”

The explosive excitement that descends on them is contagious. There’s even a fair amount of jumping and squealing as they make their way to the stage for bows and the encore. Derek, grudgingly, congratulates them with a slap on the ass as they ascend the stairs. It’s socially awkward, but forgivable.

Resetting the stage for the encore is rushed. They stop frequently to high-five and give more butt slaps since that’s the theme of the evening suddenly. Stiles can tell Derek regrets the initiation when he is retaliated on. His “I’m going to kill you” face looks very realistic.

The encore comes to an end too quickly, but they’re practically assaulted by congratulators as they exit the stage. Neither of them are able to keep the grins from their faces, especially when told they drink for free for the remainder of the evening.

“Any plans for the prize money?” asks Lydia, setting Dark Side of The Moon beer from a local brewery on coasters in front of them.

“Mas tequila!” Stiles demands.

* * *

* * *

**Epilogue** :

“Oh god, I’m in love.”

“Should I be jealous of a breadstick?” Scott asks, sizing the basket up.

“Probably,” Stiles garbles around half a breadstick he shoved in his mouth. “Make that definitely,” he amends after swallowing.

“We haven’t even gotten our food yet,” Scott points out.

“Breadsticks are food,” Stiles explains, taking another breadstick out of the basket.

“So they are,” Scott smiles, pulling the menu up to his face and shaking his head.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Remember to check out the [art](http://beardedwolfbabies.tumblr.com/post/91862379797/x-copacetic-x-by) and the [artist](http://beardedwolfbabies.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Check out [scilesreversebang](http://scilesreversebang.tumblr.com/) for the other entries in the challenge!
> 
> Come say hi to me on [tumblr](http://pornographicrainbowlegs.tumblr.com/)!


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